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by ShiningYrael
Summary: A hateful officer in the Great Eastern Empire's military is given a second chance at life after being felled by a nameless peasant. Given a worthless death, without honor, Lukas Abbott seeks to make himself prominent in the grand scheme of things.


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A/N – I came up with a rough idea, a very loose outline for this story a week or two previous to now (April 23 2008), and I finally figured I better get a start on it, and now I think I have enough of a first chapter to satisfy the requirements for uploading it. Hopefully I'll be able to add much more to this. There was a story I read a year or two ago regarding a similar subject. I can't remember the author, but it involved a Necromancer named Faustus, and overall it was probably the best Diablo ficlet I've read on . Hopefully my story, if I am able to continue with it, will be somewhat of a success in comparison. Any who, hope you enjoy!

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The sound of the war drums began to fade. That was the moment Lukas realized he was actually dying. The feeling in his legs had actually ceased mere seconds before this revelation. The wound in his back, a long, gaping maw of a cut that actually split the skin on his chest, though the bone weave he wore hid this from view. His killer hadn't even given him much notice, for Lukas was just another face here in this hellish setting. As life poured out of the young man, and his sight flickered he saw something with which he'd been denying all his life. He really was virtually insignificant. What, really, did his presence here accomplish? Yes, he'd killed dozens and dozens of men, he'd assisted his current taskmaster in becoming regent of the East and had become extravagantly wealthy in the process, but really, it seemed now that he was binding with eternity, facing the great death that all humans at some time or another must face, he saw that his life was but a mere splash of blood on the great, endless canvas of time.

The falchion that had been able to part his armor and tear his flesh must have cut his spine, and rapidly his blood loss was actually spreading the numbness of paralysis to other regions of his body. The strong, bulky muscles he'd gained from nearly a decade of constant strife parted like butter to a warmed blade. Had they, really, been anything more than butter? Obviously the hours and hours of hard, back breaking work and seemingly endless, grand battles he'd been in these last few years hadn't been nearly enough to protect him. Lukas drifted in an out, the pain pretty much nonexistent now that his nerves had no fuel to react. The large man simply lay on the field as the battle drifted further south from his position. No one had noticed, nor cared, it seemed, that their esteemed captain had passed on due to a careless chance second Lukas had wasted to glance towards his general, who had fled towards the edges of the battle in search of less actual fighting.

Finally his vision clouded, and the darkness closed in, seeming to shove its black entity down into his lifeless eyes. 'There is no light, after all.' he thought before drifting away into eternity.

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General Grand Marshall Reginald Miller, Emperor of the Great East Empire and Lord to thousands, gaze a passing glance to the now rotting corpse of his once most trusted captain. He simply snorted and directed his mount to trot away, "What a waste. Such a loyal one he was. Not that it affects me, of course, you understand. These little shits are so eager for a little part in the grand scheme of things they just throw themselves at the sword, it seems," the General said, turned to look at his new captain, the Sergeant that had previously served under Lukas, "But nevertheless, good to see the position in capable hands, Sir Ross."

Kyle Ross nodded slightly, though his face remained hidden under the stark black great helm he wore. Though the General's relatively large and bulky, older frame sat on his trusty stead, the young Ross merely walked at his side, large enough to actually stand a little higher than the General. Clad in enchanted ornate armor and taking steps of what a normal man would have to run to keep pace with with feet adorned in solid black greaves, the Captain switched the huge great sword to his other shoulder, and paused in his stride, "Lord, if I may, I must take leave to see the Captain is given to the pyre honorably, my liege. A personal favor, if you are tempted to refuse me, your grace...?"

Reginald hesitated, "Well, I suppose I do owe the poor thing that much. You have leave, Ross. But, I wish you to do something for me... Once the captain has been laid to rest properly, I expect you and Sir Evans to do a little task. Take the Lieutenant towards that southern outpost on the route to the desert, specifically the route taken for Lut Gholein, and I want it leveled. If Richard wants to play this cat an mouse game of his, I'll show that son of a whore just who's the cat, and who's the God damned rat."

Ross smiled slightly under his helm, and nodded the affirmative, "Yes, Lord."

Evans, the only other fellow 'Viking' in the company (as the two were actually from respected, noble families in the largest city in the east, though their heritage granted these two the great strength and size of their ancestors of the North) who had joined a mere month after Ross had enlisted for this campaign, was a good friend to his fellow Barbarian. Unlike Kyle Ross, who, as his family had for generations untold studied the ways of the blade, Evans had taken to the mace, and as Ross hefted his great sword during battle, Evans slung his maul with just as much vigor. As Ross approached the beastly man who ran into battle in only a leather jerkin and pants.

Unlike Ross, Evans had taken to mastering the art of the Stone Skin, whilst Ross had taken to mastering Battle Cries, both sacred war crafts of their heritage. As such, the other warrior was able to take blows that would have shattered other men, such as the late Captain Lukas. Ross sighed a bit, but sucked in his lip and shoved all remorse away. Death was to be fought until the very last, but even he knew it was only a matter of time before he too faced it. And if Lukas had been killed so easily, Ross knew his days must be numbered in short order. Evans glanced up at Ross and smiled brightly, the blue war paint that had long since been made a permanent fixture onto his face crinkling at his cheeks.

"Kyle! I'm glad to see you made it out alright, friend. It's been a few weeks since we've been in contact, you know. I was hoping that I wouldn't end up being the only of our sort out here among these damn jungle folk." A slim, pale man followed by a horde of gore drenched skeletons and skeletal mages gave the huge man a venomous look, a green mist leaking out from his finger tips. Evans looked over and winced, "Apologies, Frost. I meant no offense."

The Necromancer called Frost retracted the evil green taint around his hands and snorted, "I suppose I can't blame you, you ignorant primate." Frost seemed to glide further in towards the encampment, a shield of bone suddenly conjured to writhe and circle around his person. Ross noted a small grin on Frost's face.

"I take it you to do this fairly often, then, Colt?" Ross asked.

Colt Evans smiled, "Yes, actually. He can act however he wants out here, but between you and I, he was raised just down the road from my families' secondary farmland. I mean, yeah, he was in the jungle, barely, but for the most part we just give each other shit."

Ross nodded, of course. Everyone who'd given themselves to an art so delicate as warfare tended to develop little quirks like this. Deep inside, though, both Colt Evans and the Necromancer both probably detested every single human on this earth, just as Ross did deep inside. Of course, Ross had spent nearly a decade under service to Lukas Abbott, one of the most sadistic and hateful officers in this army. Naturally, Abbott had this deep, passionate hatred buried, but unlike most 'closet cases' as some called them, Lukas Abbott had kept this great anger buried just deep enough to disguise his intentions. But under all the finery, all the politeness and all the mystique and charm he threw out, Lukas Abbott was a mere flip of a switch away from deadly, zealous action.

"I see. Listen, Colt. The General wants us to go clear out that outpost further towards the desert. I suppose we're supposed to return whenever we finish, but I don't want to leave until I see the Captain burned at the pyre."

Evans grimaced, "Sad to hear that, Kyle. It's not often you meet someone like him."

Ross nodded, "Yeah."

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The fire bathed him in its horrific, sparkling glory. Oceans of fire, molten rock and scorching jets of flame. Everywhere. Screams split the sulfur tainted air with nary a pause, and the taste of this air carried the distinct hint of blood, fear, and sex.

Lukas Abbott refused to let his screams join them, and steeled his soul against this hellish barrage, and dared to open his eyes at the skeletal horror grasping at his shoulders and bathing him in fire. Lukas grasped for that familiar magical pool and pulled forth an extraordinary amount. He opened his mouth and cried, "BURN!" A stream of blue, twisting fire jolted from his open throat and tore into the skeleton, tearing it into pieces and sending them flying into the distance.

Lukas dropped to his knees, the scalding hot stone burning into his 'skin'. He pulled forth another burst of power and covered his body in its glow, a field of invisible, telekinetic energy. The scalding pain stopped, and Lukas Abbott began to walk along the distinctly darker bit of stone that served as a pathway. The anger that possessed him for so long continued to do so, and in its raw, primitive form Lukas showed just why humans deserved their place in the universe.

He met countless demons in his route towards the great, Gothic palace that stretched far into the endless, blood tainted sky in the distance, and all fell at his feet. Gradually, Lukas gained a weapon, an inky black great sword tainted with all the hate of Hell. The human, now freed the restrictions of his body and now in the truest form of what made a human a human. Not the upright stance, not the opposable thumbs, but the blessing of a mind, a brain that anchored the all powerful soul into such a form. Freed from those shackles, his soul was brighter in all ways, shapes, and forms, than any of these lesser demons that sought to enslave him.

As he approached a group of giant beasts, Venom Lords, he realized, the demons saw him as a threat, and backed away accordingly. Lukas grasped his blade and shot towards them, seeking to drive this extension of his malignancy as far and as fast as he could into their massive bodies. The first few strokes took off large bits of flesh. Arms, legs, wings, heads, all flying in tandem. But the damage was, in addition to physical, a largely spiritual, magical damage as well. With each flash of his ebony sword, one of the creatures spiritual makeup was altered. Crushed, perhaps, maybe warped into such a fraction of its former self only a vegetative state was possible.

It took only a minute or two for Lukas to be the only remaining one standing. The blood of his foes caked his nude form, the intense heat of his surroundings drawing out all the moisture. Still, the crimson, green, purple, and all varieties of colors soon poured onto the burning ground like a flood.

To Lukas it seemed only to take an instant before he sat at the feet of Diablo, Lord of Terror. "You, beast! You seek to show your dominance over the lesser creations, eh? Well fuck you, and this damned place! None of your servants match my power, and dare I admit it for I possess quite the ego, there are hundreds much stronger in spirit and magic than I on the Earth. How can you possibly believe yourself so superior?"

Diablo stood off his haunches and crossed his mighty arms in front of his bulging chest, "You are wicked, mortal. Your spiritual strength is one of hate. Your magic is intended for destruction. Your life, spent in search of personal glory and power. The priests that claim much of the spiritual strength in your world are indeed great in their own world, where He casts his gaze, but here, in my domain, the light is not welcome. And as I am now, in all my power, the greatest I've ever had, only He could dare stand directly against me. Unlike in ages past, where you mortals sought to slay me in my infancy, I have become nearly as great as my father." Diablo took a step forward and laughed, "You're a fool, Lukas Abbott. You kill a few lesser demons and dare stand against the greatest of all demon kind? Death can't save you from me, child. Your wickedness has both blessed and cursed you. You've been granted strength, but also doomed to my world. Just as your priests are cursed with weakness, but 'blessed' with the promise of an eternity of peace..."

Diablo leaned back for a moment, "It's pathetic!" he roared, his great voice shaking all of Hell. "Strife creates power. I've warred against the Heavens and you mortals for thousands upon thousands of years! My strength is not like Lucifer who came before me. I don't sit contented with doling out the role of torture set out to me by Him! I fought, and as such, I became strong! An eternity of peace... for those who are too weak to be daring, if one were to inquire my thoughts on such a subject.

"By now, mortal, you should realize I'm talking to you because, frankly, I plan to use you. Now that wisdom has come to me, opposed to the vanity I was cursed with in my quest for dominance on Earth, a feat which I now realize is truly impossible, I see the way to wound my antithesis is through a form of subterfuge. How would you like to become one of my children? There have been only three in all of time. I grant you the power you have here, and a few more physical endowments, as well as a future as a greater demon lord if you meet all the criteria I charge you with. Think, mortal. I give you another chance at life. A greater existence, one that actual has substance. Your life will impact that great canvas of time you seemed to intent upon as you passed into my realm. No mere splash. Your impact will be as a hurricane on a great ocean. Felt all through Hell, Heaven, mortal Earth, and all spiritual and physical realms in existence. Will you deny my blessing, and fall into eternal servitude, or grasp my gift and become greater than you are?"

Lukas Abbott hesitated for merely a second. "I accept your blessing."

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2478 Words – Story

2608 Words - All


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